


Introduction

by Kylie Lee (kylielee1000)



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, ex-wife, reuben sandwich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylielee1000/pseuds/Kylie%20Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timmy meets Brigit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to [Nick N Nora](http://community.livejournal.com/nick_n_nora/) as part of the Meet the Boyfriend challenge. Geographical research courtesy of Wikipedia. A few elements here are taken from _Death Trick._ As usual, I've combined the books with the made-for-TV movies, melding the character elements of the former with the looks of the actors in the latter. I haven't read all the books, so I don't know how unutterably accurate this is. Originally posted November 24, 2007.

"It's a good Reuben," Timmy said doubtfully.

I stared at him in shock. "Good?" I said incredulously. "Great. The best. This?" I gestured. "This is the best Reuben _I have ever had in my life._"

"I know, I know."

Timmy set his sandwich down and wiped his hands on a flimsy paper napkin. He was a dipper, unlike me—I was a slatherer—and his little pot of Thousand Island dressing, tucked amongst his fries, was full of little shreds of meat. It didn't bother me as I dipped a corner of my own sandwich into his dressing and took a happy bite. Delicious.

"It's no use. Just wash your hands when you're done," I said around a bite of corned-beef goodness, because Timmy's napkin had disintegrated, and he was giving it a look of deep dislike even as he reached for the heavy black napkin dispenser. "I don't know," I pondered, gazing with love at my sandwich. "Russian or Thousand Island? The timeless question. It's so hard to decide."

"Or in your case, both." Timmy deployed a knife and cut the remnants of his sandwich into three bite-size pieces. "Russian on top, Thousand Island dipped."

"It's the best of both worlds."

"More coffee, Don?" the waitress called from behind the counter as the customer she'd just rung up turned away, threading his way through the little knot of people blocking the doorway. Suze didn't stand on ceremony. She was not one to drop by the table if she could bellow across the room.

"Yes, please." I waved my empty cup at Suze to emphasize my point, in case she couldn't hear me over the lunch crowd, and I saw her head for the Bunn coffee machine. I lost my grip, likely the result of the grease combined with spilled salad dressing, and the cup clattered a few inches to the tabletop.

Timmy noticed. "Here you go." He grabbed a thick wad of napkins and handed them to me.

"Thanks." I wiped as Suze filled my cup and, unasked, topped off Timmy's cup, who frowned at this sudden upset of his careful cream-coffee ratio.

"Do you have any wipes?" Timmy asked, to my acute embarrassment, but Suze didn't bat an eye.

"Sure thing, hon," she responded, and she thrust a hand into her green apron's pocket and scattered a handful of packets across the table like largesse. I looked at them in surprise. I'd had no idea that the waitresses carried around wipes.

Timmy picked one up by the edge. Somehow it reminded me of Timmy holding a condom wrapper, which was recently one of my favorite sights, and I resisted the urge to make an inappropriate comment. We were in a public place, after all.

"I take it you get a lot of requests for them," Timmy told Suze mildly.

"Yup. And lots of requests for the Reuben, too." Suze pointed at me. "Haven't seen you in here for a while," she said. "It's been, what, six months?"

I calculated. "Sounds about right. I moved down to Albany about a year, year and a half ago," I added, to forestall questions. "But I can't stay away. I love your Reubens."

"That's what I like to hear," Suze said, and she gave me a grin, then headed off to top off someone else's coffee.

"Kind of reminds me of a condom," Timmy said thoughtfully, holding the wrapped wipe up next to his face and giving it a little wave. He gave me a salacious look as he ripped it open, just as if we were in bed, and I snorted as I simultaneously laughed and inhaled coffee.

"I was just thinking that," I said when I could speak again.

Timmy used the wipe to clean his hands, then picked up one of his sandwich bites and dipped it as I struggled to recover my poise. I watched his hands as I coughed. Even though shredded napkins littered his side of the table, his hands didn't actually seem to get greasy. He had long, delicate fingers. I'd only recently become unable to get the way he used those long, delicate fingers out of my head, but I hadn't broached the subject of my recent obsession, in part because I had trouble keeping my hands to myself. This minor obsession with Timmy would probably pass. It usually did. We hadn't been seeing each other long, and it wasn't serious.

"So you lived here in Latham?" Timmy asked when he'd finished his sandwich. He was only toying with his fries.

We were actually in the town of Colonie, but I didn't want to get pedantic with him. "Yeah. I owned a house sort of by Haswell Road." Timmy nodded as if he knew exactly where Haswell Road was. I continued, "I used to come here once a week, I swear, for a Reuben. They also make a good Monte Cristo."

Timmy said critically, "The main problem with Monte Cristos is that there's no salad dressing," and I grinned. Just when I thought he'd be all persnickety, he'd come out with something great like this. I loved the way his mind worked.

"Maple syrup instead," I suggested, and Timmy agreed. "I don't know if the sandwich was worth the drive—" I began, but Timmy interrupted me with a dismissive wave of those fingers.

"The sandwich is great, sure, but what's worth it is seeing you enjoy it so much." Timmy leaned across the table and dropped his voice seductively. "Because it's clear that you really, _really_ like a good Reuben." He said "Reuben" to rhyme with "blow job."

"Oh, I do," I said fervently. "I really, really do." It really wasn't that much of a drive, I thought as I gazed into Timmy's eyes—he had great eyes. If we sped back, we'd get back just in time to spend the rest of the afternoon in bed. If Timmy kept looking at me like that, we'd probably have to pull off US 9 onto a side road for a few minutes. I was just about to suggest that we leave when a familiar voice said my name.

"Don?" Timmy prompted gently when it had become clear that I had frozen.

"Gah," I said, or something along those lines, as Brigit sat down next to Timmy, forcing him to scoot over. "Hi, Brigit," I managed.

"Donald," she answered coolly. "I hope you don't mind. All the tables are taken, and you look like you're almost done. Who's got this table? Oh, I see Suze." She raised a hand and called over the din, "Suze! A Reuben and a glass of iced tea."

"Sure thing, hon!" Suze yelled back.

Their brief exchange had given me time to pull myself together. "So...uh...you look great, really great," I babbled insincerely. In fact, she did not look great. She looked about ten years older than when I'd seen her last, and her hair was long past due for a dye job to add the gold back in. She'd also lost weight, which made her look gaunt instead of fashionably slim. I'd always thought she looked like Delphine Seyrig in a blonde wig, and still, underneath the wrecked exterior was the well-dressed, classy woman I knew.

"Who's your friend, Don?" she asked, not at all fooled.

"Er—" I started. Brigit always did like to go on the offensive.

"I'm Timothy Callahan," Timmy said, reaching his right hand over, inviting a handshake.

Brigit took it without hesitation, pressing instead of shaking. "Brigit Strachey," she said. The pause that followed seemed unnecessarily dramatic to me. "Don's wife."

"It's nice to meet you." Timmy didn't miss a beat.

"I'll bet." Ironic understatement was one of Brigit's specialties. She settled herself into the booth, tucking her purse between her and Timmy. "He's very good-looking," she said to me, as though Timmy weren't right there.

"I know," I answered, just as Timmy said politely, if a little coldly, "Thank you."

"I take it you two are an item," Brigit continued.

"_Item_ is such a strong word—" I said, which paled next to Timmy's simple, "Yes," and once again, I shut up, even as I shot Timmy a look that said, simultaneously, "So we're an item?" and "I'm so, so sorry."

I was desperately trying to think of something clever to say when Suze dropped by Brigit's iced tea and a set of silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. "Your Reuben'll be up in a few minutes," she told Brigit. "Nice to see the two of you together again."

"We're not—" I began, but I subsided when Brigit said, "Oh, we're not together anymore." She gestured, finger waving between me to Timmy, almost accusingly, I thought. "These two are. You know."

"Oh," Suze said, eyebrows raised, sounding honestly surprised. "Oh." The last was said in a much different tone—horror, I thought, combined with salacious interest. Or maybe I just made that up. But she wasn't looking at me like I was Don anymore, but some stranger.

"Could we get our check, please?" I asked loudly. It was the first sentence I'd managed to complete since Brigit had sat down.

"Sure thing, Don."

Suze fled, and I glared at Brigit. "Don't freak out the help," I told her, annoyed because Suze would now never treat me the same. My refuge, my favorite once-every-six-months restaurant, would no longer welcome me. Why had she done that? It was my prerogative to out myself—although I supposed it was Brigit's to reveal exactly why we were getting a divorce. It couldn't be easy for her. But then again, it wasn't easy for me. And then there was Timmy. We hadn't been dating very long or very seriously, but I liked him, really liked him, and I hadn't thought the time was yet ripe to get into angst-ridden discussions about past loves and past mistakes. I'd told him I had an ex named Brigit, and not much else. He hadn't pressed for more.

"I'm happy I ran into you, actually," Brigit said, still pointedly pretending Timmy wasn't there. "You left all your books. I boxed them up and stuck them in the back bedroom. It would be great if you could come get them."

"I don't have anywhere to put them," I hedged. My apartment in Albany was pretty small, and my office had even less room. I didn't want to rent a storage space—my uncertain income made such an expense unwise. Making rent on two places was hard enough. Brigit had changed the locks after I left, so I couldn't sneak in and get them. I'd have to call ahead, make plans. I didn't have it in me to do that. "If you don't mind holding onto them," I added.

"No, I guess not. Just you know that I want to get rid of them eventually."

"Okay. Thanks." Brigit picked up her glass of iced tea and took a sip, eschewing the floating bendy straw with its little paper cap, and I noticed that she still wore her small diamond solitaire and wedding band on her left hand. She'd lost enough weight that the ring swung crazily on her finger. I felt somehow ashamed that I didn't wear my ring—hadn't worn it for a while, in fact. It was in a box in my bedroom. Legally, we were still married. Added to the awkwardness of discussing domestic details in front of Timmy was the fact that I might actually have failed to mention to him that Brigit and I weren't quite divorced yet. Timmy was religious, after all. I'd wanted to seduce him, not scare him away. Brigit turned to him. "So, Timothy Callahan. What do you do?"

"I push papers," Timmy said vaguely.

"And you fuck my husband."

The words dropped like boulders, immediately sinking. The silence stretched. The horrible inappropriateness of her statement made my face hot. I couldn't speak. There was literally nothing I could say that would not make things far, far worse.

"Yes," Timmy finally said. "Sometimes I do. And sometimes we go out to lunch on Sundays. Like today."

"Do you like it? Fucking my husband?"

Timmy's voice was steady, and he looked directly at her when he spoke, as if she wasn't insulting him, as if all her questions were serious and not goading. "Very much. Although I regret to say that I didn't know he was still married." Now he turned to me, but his look was mild, not accusing, and that somehow made it worse.

"The court date's set," I said in self-defense. "It's in a couple months."

"Ah," Timmy said neutrally.

I didn't ask him if it made a difference to him, because I didn't want him to answer "yes" and have Brigit sitting right there. I also had some idea that Catholics didn't believe in divorce, only death or annulment, but then again, it wasn't like Timmy and I could get married or anything. I didn't know what he'd think was relevant. That wasn't true, of course. I figured that probably the lying—or the not telling the whole truth—was relevant. I gripped my thick white ceramic coffee mug and wished I had not craved Reubens when I had awoken that morning in Timmy's bed, after a late Saturday night out.

"Checks right here," Suze said briskly, appearing long enough to rip two sheets off her pad and set them upside down on the table. "At the register whenever you're ready. Good to see you again, Don." She winked at me as she rushed off, and I felt relief. Suze hadn't turned against me. She barely knew me, after all. I was just a customer who tipped well.

Timmy reached over. "Let me," he said when my hand hovered over his, and I withdrew it. "If you'll excuse me—"

Brigit had him pinned in. "Oh. Right," she said.

She grabbed her bag and exited the booth so Timmy could make good his escape. She watched Timmy get in line behind a portly fiftyish man in jeans who worked with his hands and a tall blonde woman wearing church clothes. The young waitress at the register worked it quickly and efficiently. A few people in line near the door peered at us hopefully, sensing that the line would soon move. The postchurch rush was in full swing.

"He seems nice," Brigit said, sitting back down across from me. "Polite. Nice dresser. The glasses make him look smart. A little older than you, huh?"

"I guess so," I said. I hadn't really given it much thought.

"Are you guys serious?"

"No." Not yet. "We haven't been seeing each other all that long."

"So you didn't leave me for Timothy Callahan."

I shook my head. "Not Timmy specifically. Nobody specifically." "Just men" hung in the air between us, but neither of us said it. "I met him while I was working a case," I added.

She turned and watched Timmy as he stood patiently, waiting his turn. "He took my check too," she realized.

I reached across the table and put a hand over hers as she made to get up, and she sat back down, defeated. She bowed her head, and I knew it wasn't just the check. "It's all right. Let him," I told her, squeezing.

"Let go, please," she said, voice low, and I dropped her hand. She lifted it, extending her fingers, surveying her wedding rings. "I know, it's stupid," she said, and I was shocked to see tears standing in her eyes. "I should take them off. I will after the hearing." She wiped under each eye with the side of an index finger. "I love you," she said baldly, and there it was.

"I know. I'm sorry. I love you too." It wasn't enough. I had thought it would be, that day, years ago, when we had gotten married, but it wasn't.

"You promised," she said simply, like a child. "You _promised._"

"Would you still want me?" I asked steadily. "Knowing what I want?" It was more than want. It was need. Lying to her had been worse than lying to myself.

"Yes," she said. She'd gotten control of herself. Her voice had returned to normal. "But I love you. So I'd better let you go, so you can be what you have to be and do what you have to do."

"Here's your Reuben, hon," Suze announced, and we both looked up. The moment we had just shared shattered as Suze set the plate down.

"Thanks, Suze," Brigit said automatically, and Suze said something polite as she leaned over to pile the shredded napkins onto Timmy's french fry–laden plate. She stacked Timmy's plate atop my empty one and whisked them away. "I'm not hungry," Brigit decided, surveying her plate.

"Maybe get it to go," I suggested.

"I'll get a to-go box from the cashier." Brigit hooked her purse over her arm and scooted to the edge of the bench. At the register, Timmy had his wallet out and was handing bills to the young waitress. He said something and she laughed.

Brigit paused at the edge of the table and gave me a half-smile. She was herself again, in control, unflappable. "I like your Timothy Callahan."

"I do too."

"I'm sorry I was so rude to him."

"No, you're not."

She considered. "You're right. I'm not. But I'll apologize anyway. Watch my sandwich."

"Will do."

She turned and headed for the register. Timmy was just turning away. She put her hand on his forearm to stop him, and I sipped coffee and watched them as they spoke. I could sense Timmy's wariness, but he unthawed enough to give her a smile. I knew they were talking about me because neither of them turned to look. Timmy waited for Brigit when she cut line to get a Styrofoam clamshell to put her sandwich in, and they came back to the table together.

"I'll walk you guys out," Brigit said. She scraped the contents of her plate into the clamshell and closed it. "Are you parked around back?"

"Yep," I said.

"Me too."

A busboy had begun clearing our table before we reached the door. People shuffled aside to let us through. It was sunny outside, a beautiful day. A few people loitered outside, hands in pockets against the cold. Puffs of breath came out of their mouths. As we walked around the building, we talked neutrally about the weather and the probable length of my and Timmy's drive back. I held her clamshell for her while she found her keys and unlocked the door. She'd gotten a terrible parking spot, way in back of the crowded lot. We kissed each other good-bye, chaste brushes of lips against cheek. She thanked Timmy for the Reuben before she got in the car and started it.

"Well," Timmy said as we stood back so she could maneuver her car out. "That's Brigit."

"Yep."

I shivered despite my jacket, and Timmy put his arm around me. Brigit's car passed us, paused at the edge of the road, signal light blinking amber. A moment later and she was gone, back to our house—her house now, or at least it would be in two months when I signed it over to her as part of the divorce settlement.

"You want to talk about it?" Timmy asked cautiously.

I pressed my side against his as we headed for the car. I thought of his body in bed, pale and beautiful, the way it warmed under my touch, the way I responded to it. So unlike Brigit. I'd done the right thing, absolutely the right thing, but then there was her devastated face and her _you promised._

"Yes," I decided. "I think I do."


End file.
